And France shall dearly buy this villainy,
So soon as we set footing on her breast.
God have the praise for our deliverance;
And next, our thanks, Lord Cobham, is to thee,
True perfect mirror of nobility.
[Exeunt.]
ACT V. SCENE II. A high road near St. Albans.
[Enter Priest and Doll.]
SIR JOHN.
Come, Doll, come; be merry, wench.
Farewell, Kent, we are not fond for thee.
Be lusty, my lass, come, for Lancashire,
We must nip the Boung for these crowns.
DOLL. Why, is all the gold spent already that you had the other day?
SIR JOHN. Gone, Doll, gone; flown, spent, vanished: the devil, drink and the dice has devoured all.
DOLL.
You might have left me in Kent, that you might, until
you had been better provided, I could have stayed at
Cobham.
SIR JOHN. No, Doll, no, I’ll none of that; Kent’s too hot, Doll, Kent’s too hot. The weathercock of Wrotham will crow no longer: we have pluckt him, he has lost his feathers; I have pruned him bare, left him thrice; is moulted, is moulted, wench.
DOLL. Faith, sir John, I might have gone to service again; old master Harpoole told me he would provide me a mistress.